


Hypergargalesthesia

by canistakahari



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Sparring, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 14:48:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kirk finds out that McCoy has a huge tickle spot somewhere -- like, really super squirms-and-laughs-before-he-can-help-himself ticklish. He tries to use the power this gives him only for good, but you know what they say about power...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hypergargalesthesia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spikeface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikeface/gifts).



Jim makes his super-awesome top secret discovery  _completely_  by accident.  
  
All they’re doing is making out.   
  
They make out a lot, actually, after discovering pretty quickly that they’re both deeply into the warm intimacy of just kissing and kissing and  _kissing_ , pressed close and clutching the nearest available limb, moving lazily together whether they’re fully-clothed or half-naked or entirely skin-to-skin, growing slick and urgent as arousal builds slow and simmering between their bodies.   
  
Jim never took McCoy for a slow and sweet kind of guy, and evidently, neither did McCoy, because they both register faint surprise the first time they spend nearly two hours tangled on Jim’s tiny single bed, sucking kisses into each other’s lips and skin and licking into each other’s mouths with no hurry to go any further below the waist.   
  
That’s totally a digression. A slightly relevant one, but a digression nonetheless.  
  
The point is that they’re engaging in some of that much-beloved horizontal tongue-fucking—with McCoy spread out beneath Jim, having been tackled upon his exit from the bathroom clad only in a damp towel and beads of errant water—when it happens.  
  
 _It_  being the moment Jim slides one hand up from the sharp angle of McCoy’s hip and then curves it around the jut of his ribs, just below his armpit.   
  
McCoy unexpectedly  _flinches_  at the contact, jumping like Jim’s hands are freezing and then letting out a high-pitched squeak.   
  
Jim stills, keeping his hand exactly where it is, and meets McCoy’s wide, flustered gaze. He then very deliberately brushes his fingers over the same spot.   
  
“Jim!” gasps McCoy, jumping again and trying his hardest to wriggle away from the light touch. He’s huffing out breaths like he’s straining himself to keep from laughing, his cheeks rapidly turning pink. “Fuck—that— _stop it_!”  
  
A slow, devious smile spreads across Jim’s face. “Stop what?” he asks innocently, trying it on the other side of McCoy’s chest and getting rewarded with another full-body twitch and a strained giggle. “Stop this? Why?” McCoy’s face is staining a deeper pink as he squirms, breathing restlessly and struggling to catch Jim’s hands and push them away.   
  
“You bastard!” There’s a warning tone to his voice, but Jim doesn’t usually let that sort of thing stop him. His compulsion to explore this intriguing new development outweighs his (admittedly faulty) instinct for self-preservation. “Jim, if you don’t cut this shit out, I swear I’ll—” He breaks off to draw in a shuddering breath and then abruptly breaks out into bright helpless laughter as Jim ignores him and launches a brilliantly strategic two-pronged attack, scrabbling both hands lightly over his ribs until McCoy is a puddle of hysteria, laughing so hard his face is bright red and there are tears streaking down his cheeks.   
  
“If—if you don’t stop,” gasps McCoy, his hands clamped tight around Jim’s upper arms, still pushing vaguely to get him away, powerless in the face of his own body’s treacherous reactions, “Oh god—” He gets lost in laughter for another moment, his face lit up in a way Jim has never seen, before he manages to growl, “ _Stop it or I’m gonna fucking piss myself_.”  
  
Oh. Oops.   
  
Jim lays off immediately, chuckling a little himself, and McCoy’s laughter winds down. He slaps at Jim’s hands and wriggles out from under him. The towel he’s wearing gets caught behind Jim, leaving McCoy naked and flushed pink from head to toe, his abdomen still twitching as he gathers himself.  
  
“You  _asshole_ ,” huffs McCoy, wiping tears from his cheeks.   
  
“What can I say, Bones,” grins Jim, holding up his hands. “I’ve got the magic touch.”  
  
“Does it turn off?” demands McCoy, glaring. It loses a little of its potency due to adorable hair and the remains of a darling blush.   
  
“Apparently all I need is the threat of you losing control of your bowels.”  
  
McCoy swipes at Jim’s head and then snatches the towel back, pooling it over his lap primly. “I hate you. I hate you and every single person in the world that thinks taking advantage of a completely uncontrollable physiological reaction is  _cute_.”  
  
“You are hella ticklish, Bones,” grins Jim. “As if I’d let that slide.”  
  
“You will if you want to keep your fingers.”  
  
“Okay, okay,” says Jim, holding his hands up defensively, not bothering to hide his smile. “I promise I’ll use my powers only for good.”  
  


oOo

  
  
He doesn’t use his powers only for good.  
  


oOo

  
  
“That’s good,” pants Jim, bending over at the waist and resting his hands on his thighs as he catches his breath. “That’s much better, Bones. You almost had me.”  
  
“One more round?” asks McCoy, rewrapping his left hand and setting the roll of tape aside before shaking the sweat out of his hair.  
  
“Yeah, sure.” Jim readjusts his t-shirt, tugs up his shorts, and drops into a crouch, McCoy mirroring his posture across the mat.   
  
This time, McCoy manages to get him onto the ground, catching him in a chokehold, flipping him onto the floor, and then pinning him with an arm across his chest, but Jim uses his knees to overbalance them both and flip them over, thumping McCoy into the mat and trapping him with his thighs.   
  
“Fuck a duck,” groans McCoy in defeat, stretching his arms above his head and exhaling in frustration. “This is useless.”  
  
Jim grins, shaking his head. “Again, almost had me. You have to watch all my limbs, Bones. Just because you’ve got my upper body pinned doesn’t mean I can’t turn things around by using my legs.”  
  
“One more round,” says McCoy, eyes narrowing.  
  
Jim Kirk is not the kind of guy that turns down a challenge. He gives McCoy his best  _sure-why-not?_  shrug, then exaggerates the process of ducking down into position again, cracking his neck and watching with glee as the scowl builds on McCoy’s face, jumping exponentially from threat level two all the way up to eight in a fraction of a second. Then they’re grappling again, bodies crashing together and rolling over and over on the floor, both of them scuffling and cursing breathlessly.  
  
It’s cheating.   
  
Jim  _knows_  it’s cheating, but McCoy has him trapped in a headlock, and damned if Jim can’t actually counter it. The only way he can squirm out of it is to—to reach back, flailing for the spot he knows will make McCoy buckle, and hope that he—  
  
McCoy lets out a surprised  _woof_  of laughter and immediately lets go of Jim, which allows Jim the opportunity to spin around, catch McCoy’s arm and flip him onto the mat.   
  
Sitting on McCoy’s ass as he lies prone and then proceeding to tickle the ever-loving shit out of him while McCoy pounds his fists into the floor howling with unrestrained laughter is absolutely less than fair. It’s not like Jim is lying to himself about it.  
  
“Uh—god—stop,” begs McCoy through barks of laughter, trying to buck Jim off his back like a rodeo pony. “Swear to god, Jim, gonna—I’m gonna get you back. Revenge will be—”  
  
“Nonexistent!” cries Jim. He waves his hands above his head, giving McCoy a minute to breathe, and cackles manically. “I have discovered your fatal flaw, McCoy! Victory will be mine!”  
  
Jim’s aware they’ve drawn a small crowd. He graces everyone with a wide grin, pointing at McCoy and gesturing lewdly.  
  
Sadly, that moment of distraction gives McCoy the opening he needs to draw up one knee, unbalancing Jim and sending him tumbling. McCoy leaps onto his back like a spider monkey, shouting some sort of baffling war-cry through his laughter despite the fact that the tickling has stopped, and pins one arm behind Jim’s back before collapsing over him like a human blanket and hugging him oppressively.   
  
“Ha,” says McCoy, puffing out a breath against Jim’s ear. “ _Mine_.”  
  
Jim wheezes. “I give,” he says hurriedly, tapping out. “You win.”  
  
McCoy presses a quick, discreet kiss to Jim’s temple and unravels from around him before helping Jim to his feet. “Don’t think this is over,” he warns, waving a finger at Jim. His hair is rumpled and his impressive shoulders are hitching with his shallow breaths.  
  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” leers Jim, holding up his hands and waggling his fingers threateningly.  
  
McCoy just rolls his eyes.


End file.
